


Sword of Stone, House of Holy

by smoulderingsunrise



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-19 01:40:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7339381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smoulderingsunrise/pseuds/smoulderingsunrise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean can't survive without his angel. His angel can't survive without Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sword of Stone, House of Holy

**Author's Note:**

> I know that it says major character death. Not really. But, c'mon. I couldn't lie. Its not that sad.

A man, painted with broken sunsets plagued by dissonant harmonies and haunting melodies, with just a drop of inharmonious symphonies on shoulders of bending horizons, postured with crumbling mountains, but gazed in satin clouds and a voice with angel wings. He stood in pieces of his former self, a shadow of a hill next to the mighty mountain, but his presence was strong enough to shake the daydreams of giants and gentle enough to caress the sweetest of dreams to sleep. He exuded passion as if this were the last days on earth, but loved with warmth that the hottest fire would shy away in his presence. And he was misunderstood, as the wild beast mistaken for a slaughterer and cowardly. But this man didn’t care about any of that. He loved so fiercely that the angels above called down for the world to rejoice when his smile shone through the gloom to the cloudless day beyond the heartache. And he fought. He fought for all that was good; he fought for all that he loved, and he fought for family. But family didn’t always mean blood. Sometimes it meant the bonds he smithed. And he would protect them, even if it meant self-sacrifice, even if it meant sacrificing his body to Hell, his soul to the sky, nailing his hands to the stars, and ripping out his heart and saying, “Here. Hold this.” If it meant piercing his skin with the broken promises of “I’ll come back”, or hanging himself with the thorns of shattered hopes and shards of bad dreams. See, he was good to the world. He loved it, cared for it, and saved it. Not a few times, but many. Too many to count. And it didn’t matter to him whether or not he could touch infinity, or dip his hands in forever, but he learned that time can heal the pain. But he also learned that it’s hard to keep fighting if the hands of the clock are more broken than the sidewalks after an earthquake, and tremble more that the old hands that have arthritis; unable to hold anything. And the man realised that none of that mattered. It wasn’t important if he couldn’t rip out his most important parts, or if he could stare into the pit and challenge it as the old bull challenges a young goat, or even if he was too weak to carry on. All that mattered was if he could wait until the end of the day, wait to see the happy faces of his family light up the sky as if Heaven itself opened up and was spreading love and goodwill onto all the miserable people. So he would scream for hours into the darkness, “I want your worst”, so when the world was dying and lost without hope, he could say “I still want you. I still need you” and so he could write a message in his blood, fly it on a pole made of courage, and wave it with his beating heart, so the world would know that he had not given up, that he would care for it and love it and be gentle as if a mother to a child; so the world would know not to give up on him. But if the world ever did, he would be ready.   
He knew the secret to love: Love is blind. So he wrote his poems in braille and his stories with the scars that formed when he ripped out all of the pain from his smile and the truth that clawed it’s way out of his throat, so that they would never fade. He carved his stories with the hammer and the chisel, but carried bandages and glue to patch up the pain he caused with his unruly scratches. So when he realised that sorrow and silence have the same address, he tried to mend the bluebird’s wings that this tragedy flew in on. But this man, he learned so much in such a small amount of time. He learned that the stars in the sky can be moved to form intricate webs of constellations and the heavens can be smote, as easily as a foot crushes a bug. He learned that when an artist dies, he paints the sky as his final masterpiece, and when the cool blue of summer skies roll around, the listless clouds play in the lazy air, tumbling over the bluebirds as they float in the thick atmosphere. He knew that he’d always get a chance to patch up the cracks, and he knew that he’d always have some reason to do it. But the man also knew that life is short, and if you spend too much time saving others, you can’t save yourself. But he ignored these warnings, and dived into the blackness of Hell, all for another man. And angel, you might say, with eyes more blue that the ocean, a grace more majestic than God, and wings more broken than the sunrise after a fire. Discordant songs covered the air when the angel tried to fly. And the man knew that the angel was fallen, so he tried to fix him. The angel would give anything he could to save the man, and so it was with the man, the angel. The man would go to Hell for the angel, to grip him tight, raise him from perdition. But see, angels can’t feel. That’s what made them angels. So the man tried, loved, cared for the angel with all his heart, and the angel, who was afraid of falling loved the man who was afraid of flying. The man, who refused to believe in angels, or God, or Heaven, came to love them. The angel fell in every sense for the man, stripping his wings so that he could be with him, and breaking his grace to love the man. The man, went to purgatory, stayed there, suffering, burning, living through hell, all for his angel. He prayed, every night, begging for the angel to come and save him. When the angel came, they held each other, hugged; an embrace warmer than the fire of heaven itself. The man told his angel that he would get them out, no matter what, even if it killed him. The angel told his man that he would give up everything: his faith, his family, his home, his house so holy, everything he knew and everything he could to. He gave up his wings, and all his power. All to keep his man safe. They stayed together, despite fate, their backgrounds, or even the will of the other angels, all for family.  
And one day, the angel threw himself in front of the sword of heaven. He leapt to save the man, and he leapt, into thin air, into the void, into a possibility of Hell for the man. He leapt into the path of Michael’s sword, the angel’s sword. To keep the man safe. The man leapt too. He leapt in the path of his angel, the sword of love in his hand, and the man saw two blades glint in the light of truth. One of Justice, and one of Love. The man saw the blood of Heaven cloud the space between the blades, and he saw that it was not the other angel’s blood. He saw a blade slip, and falter, and cut the holy flesh, but it was not his. And as the man’s angel felt his blood flowing, pouring out of him as time flies by the old man, he saw the man standing there. And he told him, “I need you. Always do the right thing. Never kill in cold blood. Never refuse a beggar. Keep your brother safe. Promise me, you’ll come back someday. I wanted to tell you, always wanted to tell you, I love you. You’ve taught me everything about being in love. I want you to know that I forgive you for everything that you think you’ve done wrong. I would have walked with you until the very end; I would have watched as you reclaim your throne; I would have walked down the aisle with you. I’ll always love you, I want to be with you, but I suppose you’ll just have to visit me whenever you can. I only wish that I could stay with you.” And as tears of regret, of memories, of pain and of sorrow fell down the man’s face, he choked out “No...don’t leave me. I’ll-I’ll keep you here. Please stay. You’ve taught me so much. How to laugh instead of cry, how to harness up the wind, how to love, how to live, how to be happy. But most of all, how to let go, save myself for once. I guess I shouldn’t have slacked off, huh? Then you wouldn’t be here, lying at my feet, covered in blood. I’m sorry. It’s my fault. I’ll wash your clothes. I know you don’t like it when they get dirty. I’ll take you home, and you’ll get better. All better. All better-please, don’t leave me! I don’t know if I can go on much longer without you. Please, don’t go. You haven’t taught me everything yet. I still don’t know how to say goodbye.” And the angel, in all his former glory, laid there with blackened wings beside him, managed to whisper out, “I love you. I will always love-” And with that, the angel laid down his pride, let himself be in the man’s arms, and he set sail to the seas of happiness. And as the angel took his dying breaths, still awake, he swore he could hear the man singing, “Carry on my wayward son. There’ll be peace when you are done. Lay your weary head to rest. Don’t you cry no more.”   
So the legacy of love came to pass, and Sunday morning, the man, lying there in sheets, barely half asleep, dreaming of his angel’s warm embrace. He dragged himself out of bed, slightly less asleep, and got in the car; he was running late. Sunday morning, dressed in suits and shades of black, the light looked soft in his sunday morning’s best, as he stared at rows of pews, looking for a seat. Sunday morning, he sat down and bawled, bawled his eyes out until the clouds in the sky could offer up little more water. Sunday morning, he sat there, waited for a call from the angel, just a sign of “I’m alive”, but didn’t hear his phone ring. He found himself, Sunday morning, dreaming about a time that had passed, about a time he failed, worked too hard to save himself, couldn’t save his world. On sunday morning, he found himself wishing he could be a kid, turn back the time, turn back the hands of the clock, just so he could wake up from the dream, stirred wide away, whispers in enochian, covering up his screams. He found himself thinking of the call he should have made, but never did, he never did, to try and save his world. Sunday morning, he realised that his angel is never coming back. So Sunday, mourning, the man found himself in front of a sword of love, the house of holy, and wings of courage and of grace. He found himself, standing up, reciting words he was forced to memorize, really meaning nothing, getting all the formalities out of the way. And at last there, by the side of the grass, the name carved in stone, wishing he could chisel it out, he found the words he was meaning to say. “Hey there. I probably sound stupid, here, talking to an empty field, no one to hear my words, but there are a few things I wanted to tell you. I know you’re not here, well, probably not here, but I just have a feeling that you’re listening to me. I wanted to say, thank you. For always supporting me. I remember when I was on a new job, and I had to wear this ridiculous charm, to prevent possession, and I was so embarrassed. You told me that you thought I looked great. That was really nice of you. Thank you. It’s just-I can’t lie next to you, or hold you, or protect you. I wish I could. I think, before I go, you should know how much you meant to me. You meant the world. I don’t know if I can go on. But I will, if you want me to. I’ll still do anything for you. I wish I could’ve shown you so many more things. I guess you’ve shown me more no, than you have ever shown me. I realise that now. Now I see, you’ve really taught me everything. Now I know how to say goodbye.” So the man left his angel, and there were many times over the next year or two that the man would visit his angel. Always alone, and always with new flowers, leaving sometimes with only, “ I know how you love bees. So I brought you some flowers so that they would visit you.”, but other times with a long story of how sorry he was that he let the flowers die, and how he shouldn’t have done that; shouldn’t have been so careless. About two years later, the man came, like usual, but didn’t leave. The man didn’t intend on leaving. In fact, he was never going to leave. He died just like he said he always wanted to, with his gun in his hand, because he couldn’t bear life without his angel. This time, he had a spot next to his angel, so they could always be together. And the world went on, unbeknownst to the the man and his angel. But always remember the tragic story of two men, who gave everything for each other, who sacrificed their lives for each other. No, they did not know the man, nor the angel by name, but would often hear of how they saved the world, multiple times, but always with a little help from friends. They knew of an angel, who sacrificed everything he had to be, and to stay with the man. The angel, who draped the flag of heaven across his shoulders, but at the end of the day, it was all for one man. The world did not know of their relationship, their everlasting love. But they knew of the two stones, side by side, framed in light. Always. Even when storms clouded over all the sky, the graves were always alight, as if by a fire.They knew of the conjoined stone, a statue of wings, and a sword, held aloft on a stone table, the names Dean Winchester and Castiel joined by a celtic knot. And they knew of the flowers that never died, that would always bring bees, no matter what the time of year it was. And they knew of the candles that would show up, seemingly by magic, and never go out, all through the night. No, they had no idea of their devotion, but they could easily see the engraving that read, “I’m not leaving without you, and if tomorrow never comes, I will still love you”


End file.
